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“It’s quite alright, Mr. Fontaine. It’s your first day on the job, and it’s normal to be flustered,” she says.
If my boss has any idea I was making out in the supply closet like a teenager, she doesn’t let on.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon, my first high school football practice as a coach and not a student, takes my full attention.
Well, 99.9 percent of my attention.
It’s that .1 percent of my brain that can’t stop thinking about Mary.
Her smile, her laugh. Even the way she blinked made my gut quiver. Her sarcasm cut me to the bone, but I would gladly take more of it just to bask in her presence.
And when she climbed on top of me, I saw my future. My whole life had been planned out since I showed talent in Pop Warner football. From then on, it was practice, practice, practice. My granddad had one goal and one only: to make sure I was one day a first-round draft pick for the NFL.
And I made it happen, with him cheering me on every step of the way.
However, there was no plan B once that fell apart.
Granddad died suddenly of a heart attack in the middle of last season. I was so distraught, I drank myself into an oblivion. Wisely, I drank at my condo and not in public. Unwisely, I got antsy and bored and decided to take a walk, thinking I was being smart by not drinking and driving. And that is how I suffered the most stupid injury in NFL history. I passed out, fell down an embankment of the Trinity River, and wrecked my knee. Fortunately, I woke up before anyone found my drunk ass. And thank god I didn’t fall into the water. My publicist did a decent job of keeping any mention of alcohol and public drunkenness leading to the injury, but the damage to my career was done. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since.
And although sober, I’ve been aimless since the injury.
Until today.
Walking into this school this morning, I felt like I was hiding out in my hometown to lick my wounds before figuring out the rest of my life.
No, I don’t need the money. But I need to work.
And as soon I laid eyes on Mary, I knew I had a plan. Not a plan B, but the person that should have been my plan A all along.
I’m being given a second chance, and I do not intend to blow it.
ChapterEight
Mary
My phone pings with a text notification while I’m cooking dinner.
Unknown: Question for the ages: is Ron Carpenter’s handlebar mustache real, or is it a costume?
I laugh, realizing that this must be Beau poking fun at the veteran athletic director. I add his name to my contacts based on my guess, feeling pretty confident it’s him. But I feel like busting his chops.
Me: Who is this?
Beau: It’s Beau. Should have started with that.
Me: Beau who?
Beau: Beau Fontaine. The one you played seven minutes in heaven with earlier today in the supply closet.
My stomach does a crazy flip. We did a hell of a lot more than seven minutes. And unless I’m a clueless mom, seven minutes in heaven usually doesn’t entail orgasms. I hope.
Me: Gonna need you to be more specific. I did a lot of kissing in closets today.
Beau: Ah. But did any of those other guys spend the rest of the afternoon at football practice with a circus tent pole in their drawers?
Me: Oh! That Beau. Hopefully, the tent pole did not distract from making wise decisions for the future of Dauterive High School’s football program.
